Chapter 12: The Sit-Down

The back room of Crowe's steakhouse had one long table and no windows but one.

It was a tall window of old glass, and it faced the lot.

A dozen men sat on each side, and the two crews did not look at each other.

Jude took the chair at the end, and I took the one at his right.

Ollie stood behind us with his hands folded.

I had checked Jude's pulse in the car and again at the door.

It was ninety-four.

He had eaten a piece of toast, and I had counted every bite.

"Sabine stays," he had said to Ollie that morning, before I could argue.

"She's the one he asked for. Let him see why."

Crowe came in last, with a hand on every shoulder he passed.

He sat at the head of the table and spread his soft fingers on the cloth.

"Gentlemen," he said. "And lady. Thank you for coming."

"You asked," Jude said.

"I did. I want this to be civil."

A waiter poured water and left.

Crowe waited for the door to shut.

"The docks are too big for one man," he said. "Everyone here knows it."

"They're mine," Jude said.

"They're yours as long as you can stand on them."

Nobody moved.

I kept my face still, but I felt my fingernails dig into my palm.

"I hear you've been tired," Crowe went on, kindly.

"Fainting at galas. Missing meetings. A man in your line of work can't afford a bad heart."

"My heart is fine."

"Then you won't mind giving the docks to someone who can carry them."

He smiled at the men on Jude's side of the table.

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